Three Parts
by serpentine17ice
Summary: And who’s going to help me struggle, Granger? Who’s going to rescue me before it happens' I asked. She looked at me steadily. 'Well, I guess I'll have to.' she replied. I didn't believe her, not for one second. She was just too untouchable. Unreachable.


**Disclaimer: I don't _think _I own all of these people or characters… **

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**THREE PARTS **

**1 – Quit**

Draco Malfoy stood in the middle of King's Cross Station, the _exact_middle which happened to be Platform 9 (it seemed better to be neat and symmetrical), feeling miserable and sorry for himself.

Because that's what a human being does, it feels sorry for itself and, in its pathetic-looking state of misery, it would find out that it needed something to placate the _sorriness_ in which it is drowning in.

He had figured that much for himself, but he had no idea what on earth was supposed to placate and stop this state of… depression.

Yes. He was depressed.

All he knew was that whatever it was had better come soon, or else he'd ram against that tempting looking brick wall and kill himself _because_ he was so shitty and miserable.

But obviously he couldn't do that because that brick wall hid something, and if he rammed into it, he would disappear and the_reappear _on another side in another world.

A_magical _world.

He snorted at that thought. 'Magical my bloody arse.' He muttered.

A woman of short stature and timid looks standing near him, waiting for a train, gave a frightened glance in his general direction and scooted away as fast as she could which wasn't easy as the trolley she was pushing contained some heavy looking suitcases. But she moved away, because he was a grown man talking to himself.

Back to the wall.

Draco Malfoy was standing in the exact middle of Platform 9, King's Cross Station – feeling very miserable and sorry for himself, _as well as _staring intently at the brick wall in front of him, the one that he had previously contemplated using as a suicide aiding tool.

He was waiting for something. And something came.

That something burst through the brick wall, as though they were part of it and were struggling to break away, clothed in black robes pushing trolleys filled with trunks, cauldrons, animals. That something burst through in the form of student. Witches and wizards, talking excitedly to each other, mostly about the holidays to come, some retelling the story of Harry Potter to the younger ones.

The last part made Draco even more depressed because the boy he used to hate, _still _hated, had made his mark in history (really, from his birthday when a homicidal Dark Lord tried to kill him) while Draco was, ever the unspecified, standing in a station because he wanted to for no particular reason, feeling miserable and generally just blending into the background of noise, people, trains and landscape.

To be honest, his life sucked.

'My life sucks.' He muttered. And this time, no one standing nearby scooted away from him, because a depressed grown-up person talking to himself is _much more normal _than a crazy grown-up person talking to himself.

It was a stupid question because it didn't need an answer (didn't_have _an answer because nobody had ever voiced it) but as Draco watched a woman pick up her son – a woman who, with a fleshy neck strung with pearls that made it bulge more and fleshy ankles, slightly resembled a female Frankenstein with mismatching body parts – he wondered, what was the line that separated depression from madness?

How does a person know that they are fully sane, when they are so deeply ensconced in their depression that they aren't aware that they are, in fact, a homeless person in the middle of the street asking for alms?

How does a person convince himself that he is still lucid when his voice of reason has long since deteriorated and disappeared?

This confused and made Draco feel lightheaded because if everything he had just thought was true, then how did he know that he wasn't insane?

It was starting to rain. He didn't have an umbrella, and he couldn't just _suddenly _Apparate, because that would startle the muggles (even though there were many witches and wizards as well), therefore Ministry officials would have to modify their memories, and he'd have to attend a court proceeding.

And he'd have to stand, no seats provided, and listen to a bunch of old people telling him things he already knew and considered.

Besides, he hated Apparition, because it made him feel like he was about to die and he didn't want to _about to_ die. He much rather opted for the less painful death that wiped out a person in a second.

He decided to just walk back home in the rain – until he could find an unoccupied alley were he could conjure an umbrella out of garbage or something – and keep a low profile.

He walked head-down-hands-in-pockets, splashing puddles of water and causing half of his pants to grow wet.

Why couldn't the people who built roads make them flatter and smoother with fewer dents in them? That way, puddles wouldn't be there and people wouldn't be annoyed by them forming muddy patches on their pants.

His father was right: muggles really _were_ stupid, unintelligent and barely revolutionized animals.

Well, that probably wasn't thought by his father. It was probably thought by his _ancestors _(people who he did _not _know) who in turn, fed it to their offspring – father to son, mother to daughter and vice versa the other way around.

It was probably going to end with Draco, because he was an entity that always blended into the background, never noticed, and who never made a mark in history.

Girls don't go for the anti-heroes, nor do they go for anonymities. He would probably never get married, and never have offspring, therefore he would never have someone to listen to an ancient theory that wasn't thought out by him and which he just half-believed.

Because he didn't _hate _muggles. He was pretty much the same as them, now that he wasn't rich because the Ministry repossessed his dead parents mansion as they had been Death Eaters. Death Eaters who were just scared to think their own thoughts and, instead, risked losing by siding with a man who almost achieved immortality. But he was just a man, just human. And they were just a couple doing what they believed would help them survive and what they believed would save their little boy. He was always their little boy, because life and the world didn't give them enough time to see him grow up.

So there. He didn't hate muggles. He rather envied them. Just a little bit.

They had their life rationalized. They would never be caught in the process of deadly battle.

They existed, in the innocence of human minds, in the drinking and gambling, needs and desires of normal humans.

While he was in a state of depression.

Hell, he didn't even know what he was depressed about. He shouldn't mind being alone; after all, when had he ever not been alone?

Was it because he wasn't famous? Five years had gone by after the war, and was he depressed because the bitter taste of jealousy still clung to his tongue?

Or was it because he was just there? That he lived his life, but he lived it without meaning; everyday of waking, eating, sleeping and spending was just a mechanical reaction to the demands of society – a society that never noticed him but would notice him even less if he stopped this meaningless cycle?

He was trapped. He didn't want his life, but he couldn't escape it because doing so would mean he would be marked as a coward and a quitter by all the people who still knew him.

Yes. His life held no more meaning than a useless burnt-out hollow tree, and he had not the means to escape it.

Finding out exactly why he was depressed didn't make it any easier. Draco still hadn't found an invitingly empty alley or backstreet and the streets were so subjugated with people that he just gave up and doomed himself to walk back home in the rain.

_Why do I always quit? _He thought. _How come I never finish anything?_

**2 –**** Relinquish**

You are a quitter. You've quit your job, quit your Mansion, moved into an apartment, quit that as well then moved back into your Mansion.

And now you've quit your life, doing anything and nothing for no reason that you can think of. You can't even take care of your body properly.

The Healers had said it was pneumonia. And you had lied there on that sick pallet, looking up at them, wondering at what each one was thinking. Did they know who you were? Have they heard of you? And if they did, do they despise, pity, hate you? Did they wish you had died that day, sodden and downtrodden, in the rain?

_You_almost wished that, _you_almost gave up on walking home – that day – in the rain. You almost wished that you had forgotten where home was so you could just stay, freezing and shivering, in the rain. That way, at least you would have done one good thing in life.

You would have saved the world from knowing that a man named Draco Malfoy ever existed.

They had told you to relax, it wasn't too serious.

Yet.

You'd have to drink a Peppering Potion daily, drink citric fluids and tea, eat hot food and stay in bed. They even prescribed some muggle medication just in case those things wouldn't work which, they assured you, would.

And you would have snorted at them, but you didn't have the strength to. You would have asked them how they expected you to get the citric fluids and the tea and the hot food. You couldn't cook. You always ordered your food. And now that you don't have money (quit your job, remember?) you can't even do that. You don't know how to make tea, let alone get the resources for citric fluid.

What was citric fluids, anyway? Was it taking oranges, lemons, grapefruits, limes, pommelos and squeezing them into a glass? Or was it extracting vitamin C from those muggle pills and mixing it with hot water?

Which comes back to the point, you can't even heat water properly. It was always the house-elves who did everything, or your parents who knew much more basic skills than you could in a lifetime.

You always ordered your food. Drank water out of the tap. Tried to save money after you quit your job. Which didn't work.

You're not good at anything are you?

So you lied there on the sick pallet, staring up at them (you could have sat up, but you wanted to remind yourself that you weren't superior anymore, you had to look up at people). And you asked them if they had any volunteer caretakers to take care of you because – you had to squeeze the answer through your embarrassed self (you can't do anything, but you can be embarrassed pretty good) – you didn't think you had the strength to take care of yourself anymore.

And something flickered at the back of all of their eyes (like they really did pity you now, or were they shocked?) and they answered that, yes, they did have voluntary caretakers who could give some time to take care of you.

And they ushered you away because they had much more serious patients who seemed to have been bitten by vampires or by werewolves or some other creature, telling you that the caretaker would arrive in two days, and would have to accommodate either with or near you in order to take care of you. They asked for your address and promised to tell her (because, as it turned out, the caretaker was, or is, a her) that she had to look hard in between Numbers 16 and 18 for your Number 17 Mansion to appear.

Then you left with a bottle of muggle pills and tried not to cry when you realized that you had to Apparate home (you couldn't stand the pain and suffocation of it) and that in the eyes of St. Mungo's, you were officially an emotional and sort-of physical invalid because you had not much money left, you only had one Mansion to your name and that you couldn't take care of yourself.

And when you arrived at the doorstep of your home, and unlocked the many bolts and locks of the door, you raced through furniture-less hallways and rooms into your bedroom, where there was only one four-poster bed with one lone pillow and surprisingly thick sheets, and cried. Like that time in the girls bathroom, where you cried because you didn't know the way to kill Dumbledore.

And you ended up not killing him, because you were only human and you were weak.

Snape killed him. But Snape was only doing it because Dumbledore told him to, so that made it okay. For him, of course. It seemed that Snape was much more closer to salvation and redemption than even you were.

So you cried in your bedroom and felt sad because this time, there was no Moaning Myrtle to comfort you and make you feel marginally better. She was a nice girl, ghost, but still rather hopeless, like you.

At least there wasn't a Potter to almost kill you with a Dark spell. You could have forgiven him for all the other things he had done, because that was who he was and it was his destiny, but you couldn't forgive that.

So you hated him even more (but you didn't give him away the day he was dragged into your home, did you?) and that hate just wasted you away into the pathetic person that you are now.

Your life still has no meaning, you are about to be an invalid cared for by a caretaker who is a she as they told you, you have been an orphan for five years and everything you do, you still quit.

You do something, you quit, then do again, then quit again.

You never attempt to struggle against your despondent destiny, and you wouldn't ever let Chance help you.

There's the bell. Must be the caretaker. Go open the door, will you?

You're not going to quit even that, are you?

**3 – Save**

I unlocked the door. Damn those five million bolts, damn those ten billion locks!

It must have taken an entire hour to undo all of those bolts and locks (since when did this Mansion need so much security anyway? It has all the protection spells it needs!). As I slowly opened the door – just a mere inch in case it wasn't the caretaker, but some mad-axed murderer hell-bent on killing me – I wondered if this caretaker was an impatient person.

Because if she was, there was no point in me opening the door since she'd be long gone from waiting for me to open the door.

But she was there. This, I guess, would have been pretty fortunate for me, because there would be no way that St. Mungo's would send me another caretaker if the first one ran away before we could even shake hands.

I couldn't see her through the tiny crack, so I opened it wide. And when I saw her, I was in shock.

I didn't gape – depressed people don't gape, they don't have the physical energy to do so, and gaping was undignified, do depressed people ever make a fool of themselves? – but my brain was rendered blank and the small introductory speech I had prepared evaporated.

'Granger?' I asked, astonished because I thought she was in America.

And she looked at me as if she didn't know or recognize me, and I wondered if she was faking it because there was no way in which she could forget about me.

Seven years of tormenting, well, more like five since I practically stopped existing in the sixth year and I didn't see her in the seventh, apart from saving her and her fellow cronies lives.

I tormented her _and _saved her life. I think that she of all people should remember me.

But, no. She just stared at me as if she had absolutely no clue to who the hell I was, among the other random thoughts she must have been thinking at the moment.

It must have looked pretty stupid to an outsider – if, of course, an outside could see us – seeing to people standing in their positions staring at each other. One a bit puzzled, the other just slight, with a hint, of pleading. Willing the puzzled one to remember.

I don't know why I did. I mean, wouldn't it be better for her to forget? But I figured out that I had a slight case of pneumonia, I wasn't going to die, I just needed taking care of. But on the slight chance on a small scale of me _actually_dying, at least _someone_ should remember me. I needed someone, _anyone_to remember me, to know that a man named Draco Malfoy existed.

A normal man, when dying, leaves behind multitudes. Loved ones, family, friends, even strangers.

But I didn't have loved ones, family or friends. I never spoke to strangers in my entire life, in the possibility that they might kidnap me and take me ransom. I wouldn't have any money to pay them anyway, and I wouldn't have or know anyone who cared enough to pay them.

So I stared at Granger staring at me staring at her. And she slowly lifted one eyebrow which wasn't bushy anymore, and said, 'Malfoy?'

It was curious the way she said it, because her teeth were nice and straight and neat, and she had a little accent.

Because, as I said, it was in the Daily Prophet more than a year ago (when I still ordered the Daily Prophet) that the famous Hermione Granger who helped defeat the hypocritical, psychopathic Dark Lord was married to some successful muggle businessman and was moving to America.

And I had wondered, then, what had happened to her and Weasley, why did the Daily Prophet make such a fuss about marriages and why did it poke into other people's affairs? What if the people didn't want their affairs to be poked into?

And I wondered, now, was it even possible for someone to get an accent in less than a year of staying in a foreign country?

I snapped out of wondering, because nothing ever happened to people who wonder and dream, to study her.

She was browner, her hair was still bushy (but she tied it back, so it looked better) and brown, her eyes were still brown and the hand that held the two brown suitcases were delicate and also slightly browner.

So she was brown all over.

What was brown anyway? If the word was repeated so many times, how would anyone know what it was? Wouldn't it be so used that the meaning would start leaking out, and the word would just be there – a hollowed out shell, devoid of anything?

She pushed past me into the hallway and said, 'Nice place.'

Which was weird, because there wasn't any furniture around.

'Yeah,' I replied dryly, 'I tend to keep it very clean.'

She didn't smile, indicating that she didn't think it was funny, and asked, 'So where do I sleep?'

Wordlessly, I led her down many corridors, past many rooms, all empty of furniture. We finally stopped at a dead end where there was a door and we entered.

It was actually my old room, the room of my childhood. The room I currently lived in was my parent's room because I couldn't bear sleeping in a room of the past of which I couldn't relive in.

I hadn't dusted it for ages, but it was relatively okay, and I gave the silent woman beside me a little apologetic look which I really needn't have given anyway because what use was it to be sorry when it was insincere? I waved my wand, the only other think in my name, and the film of dust disappeared, giving the room a modest little glow, etcetera.

Yes, I could be quite a proficient housekeeper. I _was_actually a housekeeper, for muggles for a period of time two years ago. I quit that job in a few weeks because they weren't the nicest of people and their world was a mundane world.

Granger slowly pushed her suitcases underneath the bed. I wanted to warn her not to do that, just because the room was clean didn't necessarily mean the floor was clean. But if she wanted to place her belongings there, then it was entirely up to her.

'Tea or hot water?' she asked.

It felt so weird with her offering me hot beverages in my own home.

'Aren't you going to ask, "So how have you been, Draco?"?' I said.

I could almost hear her inwardly sigh. She glanced outside the only window in the room, as if longing to be outside as well.

'You know we both can't pretend that what happened at school never existed,' she said in a low voice, 'but for the sake of my job, we're going to be as polite as we can, to just play the charade of two people who've never met.'

'You wound my heart, Granger. Well, if you insist. Then let's introduce ourselves to each other. You know, get better acquainted if we've never met before. I'm Draco Malfoy. What on earth happened to you and Weasley to possess you to marry a muggle and move halfway across the world to America?'

'Surely you'd like a cup of tea?' she asked sweetly. When I made move to reply, she dove underneath the bed again and dragged out one of her brown suitcases. From it she pulled out two mugs and a tea pot, all of which looked very fragile and breakable. And all of which were… actually _blue_. A very melancholy blue: the true blue of depression.

I watched her mix the milk and the hot water and the tea leaves (all of which she pulled out from that unremarkable looking suitcase). I could have told her that I didn't really drink tea with milk; I preferred the bitterer but a thousand times better tasting herbal tea. I didn't tell her that because I had a feeling that she was going to snap soon. Her hands were trembling.

'Chocolate powder?' she asked me.

Despite my trying to be nice for once, I could not help being just the little bit incredulous. 'Who on earth drinks tea with chocolate powder?'

She didn't reply, but poured the tea into the two mugs and sprinkled some chocolate into hers. She asked me if I wanted sugar, which I didn't, but I said yes please anyway.

Slowly I sipped mine. It was very warming, just the right temperature, and I could not help thinking that this Granger was a very good tea-maker. It wasn't even as sweet as I dreaded.

She sipped hers and made eye contact with me. I didn't see any golden flecks in them, like books say (in the time when I still read books), but the look she gave me made her seem to far away.

So untouchable.

Some of her hair was coming out of its ponytail, and I felt the impulse to brush them away because they were hiding her face – with its untouchable look – and I wanted to carry on staring at it and her eyes because if I didn't, it would have felt like the end of the world.

Because I had been miserable and depressed for so long, that I wanted some of that untouchable-ness.

'Ron and I weren't meant to be.' She said quietly. This time, it was _I_who raised the eyebrow.

'And I want to know about your love life, because…'

'You asked.' That stopped me because the way she said those words with her American accent was rather mesmerizing and… untouchable.

She was untouchable.

'Go on.' I said. 'Hearing about someone else's shitty life might make me lose the pneumonia and make me less depressed.'

'Who said it was crap? It was the best piece of my life, and I wouldn't trade anything for it.'

'You're even more messed up than I am. At least I have my emotions in check.'

'As do I. More tea?'

I nodded. Somehow, I really wanted to hear about what had happened to someone other than me when the war was finished.

I hadn't realized, but we were both sitting cross-legged on the bed,_my _old bed, with a fragile tea-set in-between us. I could have easily leaned over and given her a hug, a kiss or something soppy like that, but that was idiotic because hugs and kisses did nothing except show that the person doing it was soft and the person needing it was deprived.

'You know Harry died?' she whispered. I nodded.

'They said it was from internal injuries.' I stated. 'It's… what my parents died from as well.'

'I know.'

'Of course. When did you ever not know anything?'

'So Harry died. And only Ron and I were left from his life's work. But, we didn't… really… fit.'

She raised her head. I saw more hair coming out of her ponytail and her eyes were covered with a layer of shimmering tears. It would have been a perfect moment to lean over and hug or kiss her, but that would only prove what I already knew – I was miserable yet soft, and she was untouchable but needy.

'He was too protective, I was too stubborn. Ginny tried to help us, but she wasn't… she was missing him too. And then I saw David, and he made me forget a bit of the pain. Then we got married and Ron looked so miserable… he was actually the best man, did you know?'

I nodded again. I didn't know any of these, but she looked real messed. She was crumpling. And I was wondering, how the hell did she become a caretaker?

'Ginny refused to come. She said I was betraying Ron, who was betraying Harry. She called us both weak.' Granger's voice changed bitterly. 'It was alright for her. She achieved what Harry would have wanted her to do. She was happy, she married Dean. She was actually pregnant by the time I got married, so nobody would have noticed if she wouldn't come. So me and David, we moved to America. And I was so different. Because I didn't know anybody there, and he did. Then I told him I was a witch. He _seemed_fine about it. But he started coming home really late. I got sick of it, so after shopping, I would get home late. Just to, you know, spite him. He'd have to make his own dinner. But… I saw him with this… _girl_.' She spat. 'Not even a woman, but a _girl_. I… cursed both of them. Whipped out my wand and turned her into a toad and made him grow pimples on his mouth.'

I smiled. I could imagine her doing that, she had the guts to slap me once.

'I… Apparated home.'

'Weren't you already at home?' I asked, confusedly.

'_Home_home. England.'

'You Apparated over the Atlantic Ocean?' I asked, amazed. She nodded. Her eyes were dry once more and, once more she was untouchable. Unreachable.

'You want to know why I became a volunteer caretaker? Because I cared about people. I cared just enough to want to save or help that portion of the world which couldn't help itself. But… you know, I would never have suspected my first case was you.'

'Lucky you.' I said sardonically. Sardonic. It always reminded me of sardines. So… I was a sardine person.

'You need help as well, don't you Malfoy?' she peered at me over the rim of her mug which she was clutching tightly.

I shook my head a bit. My chest hurt when I did that. 'I think you need more help than I do, Granger.'

She mimicked my movements and shook her head. I wondered if her chest hurt. I looked down, as if I could tell whether it could hurt, but ended up looking at her breasts, hidden behind her sweater which… was brown. And black.

My head snapped back up at her face because, the last thing I wanted to do was ogle at Granger. I haven't ogled at anyone for a long time. I haven't slept with anyone for a long time, and I hoped that the first person that I did – if I ever – wouldn't be Granger because she was too messed, and I was too messed, and I didn't want us to be messed together.

Whatever I needed to stop the depression was definitely not to stop being alone.

'My issues have been resolved some time ago, Malfoy. I've gotten a few friends back.'

'Like Weasel and She-Weasel?'

'Just Ron, because he's been my friend for a long time. Me and Ginny, well, we just pass each other the gravy.'

'None of you has tried to poison the other yet?' this comment made her smile. She shook her head again and her ponytail finally came apart.

'Shit.' She swore. She set her mug down and retied it. I used this moment to study her properly.

Her cheekbones were high. Her eyes were wide, like a gazelle's, but slanted a little downwards. Her nose was a little on the straight side. Her mouth was plump. And red.

But of course I didn't try to kiss her.

Because, I figured, however messed she was, she was better than me. Because she could save herself and take the time to at least try to save others. Which was nice of her.

The problem was, could she save me?

'I think,' she said carefully, because she noticed me clutching my chest a few seconds before, 'that you need to go to bed.'

'Oh, no, mother. I promise I'll be good and I won't disturb you. I'll be good.'

She didn't smile at that, so I dropped the act.

'If you don't want to go to bed, then tell me what's wrong. It always works with others.'

'What's there to tell? I'm depressed. I've been an orphan for too long and too soon. I have no money. Nobody knows I exist anymore. When I die, nobody will know and I'll be dried and maggots will have eaten my flesh before anyone figures it out. I have pneumonia. And worse – I'm a quitter.'

'Well, that's the problem I think. You give up too easily. If you just struggle, it'll be better.'

'And who's going to help me struggle, Granger? Who's going to rescue me before it happens?'

'That's why I'm here. I'm here to cure your pneumonia, I'm here to make your tea and food, I'm here to tuck you into bed at night when you're too helpless to do it yourself.'

I didn't believe her. Because she was an untouchable but slowly crumbling person. She was still sad. She couldn't help anyone.

But I let her anyway. I let her _'help'_me, and my chest stopped hurting, my stomach stopped getting empty.

She stayed for two weeks. Nothing happened after her 'confession' as I call it. We pretended nothing had happened.

She got me a job. Which was nice of her, because it was a job in the wizarding world, where I could re-socialize. Turned out that volunteer workers were actually paid as well.

So I met other people, people who were just the same, if not more messed, as me. And I tried to help people, avoiding the gaze of healers who I still believed despised or pitied me.

And each time I successfully helped someone, I got this queer feeling which was unfamiliar but not unwanted in me. Like I wasn't about to be forgotten, like people were actually aware I existed.

And everything was a haze, and everything was weird. And upside-down.

Because I once thought that if everyone was saved or help, the earth would shut down in it's worldly mid-life crisis. Because the world couldn't function if everybody was fine and saved. The system would be wrong.

But who said systems even existed?

I was saved. And I had finished being beyond help.

Doesn't anyone get it?

I was _saved_.

* * *

**A/N: Gah. The ending sucked a bit, didn't it? But the hopeless feeling I tried to create was okay… well, **_**I**_**like it. I'll see if you do if any of you readers review. Just review… okay?**


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